


Oxnard Diaries

by likeadeuce



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Xander's summer.  Gratuitous 'Village People'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxnard Diaries

Five weeks ago, Xander couldn't have found Oxnard on a map. Honestly, he still might not have had much luck with that. He had ended up here out of some vague idea of taking the Pacific Coast Highway to L.A., stopping in L.A. to see the landmarks of classic Hollywood -- Mann's Chinese theater, Schwab's drugstore, and OK, maybe a side trip to Disneyland. Maybe calling the one person (the one actual person person) he knew in L.A., who just happened to be Cordelia, and maybe with the whole prom dress thing she had stopped thinking that he was a complete tool and maybe they'd ride Space Mountain and the car would get stuck halfway up the first hill because this had happened once when he was thirteen and riding with his cousin Ricky and he'd thought what a wasted opportunity one day I'll come back here with a girl, and maybe when they were stuck there they'd talk and he'd be able to explain that the one little indiscretion with Willow was just an instant of poor judgment and Cordy would smile and forgive him and they'd kiss like they were locked in a basement again and she'd come with him when he drove East on Route 66.

He wasn't sure how far he had come from Sunnydale, except that it was far enough to play through Merle Haggard's Greatest Hits almost twice. Xander was just getting choked up about how they still waved old Glory at the courthouse in Muskogee, when he heard a hideous screech, then a thud, and then nothing -- all signs of a Very Bad Automotive Thing. He had just about enough cash to pay for the tow truck, and a cup of terrible coffee at Sharp Larry's Car Repair &amp; Bait Shop.

And there, sitting on a cooler full of nightcrawlers, in Larry's broomcloset-turned waiting room, Xander did the thing that, even a month later, he didn't quite understand. He called out, "Where's a cheap place to stay around here? And by around here, I mean, walking distance."

So Xander ended up with an illegal sublet on a mobile home while the owner was "on tour with Phish" as a sort of (as far as Xander could make out) groupie-dealer-Tshirt vendor.

The trailer wasn't roomy, but it was his own space. There was free, illegal cable, and sometimes he watched The Rockford Files and pretended that James Garner lived in the next trailer over, and any minute a mystery blonde was going to knock on Xander's door by mistake.

"I need your help, Mr. Rockford!" she would say, her sundress sliding down one tan shoulder. "A bad man is after me."

"A bad man?" he would say. "No sweat. I happen to be an experienced demon fighter. With military experience."

Then he would feel a twinge of guilt. Just because it was summer didn't mean that Buffy didn't need his help. Of course, she had disappeared for the past two summers, with no thought of what he and Willow and Giles were going through. Xander knew he hadn't really gotten over that, but there was no way he could think about getting even with Buffy. When you had a friend like Buffy, you sometimes wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, ask what the hell she was thinking, but that was the problem. When Buffy hurt you, it was because she wasn't thinking. Or because she was thinking about saving the world or saving some formerly evil creature she had an inexplicable soft spot for -- or feeling guilty about the saving she hadn't managed to do.

Buffy never did anything to you out of meanness, so it seemed petty to even think about being mean back. And besides, he could only hurt Buffy with his absence if she needed him to be there. And as far as he could tell, she just didn't. Buffy and Willow had been all hugs and tears when he left. Giles had been full of the patronizing advice that they all knew by now to recognize as affection, and even Oz had offered a handshake and a veritable soliloquy: "Won't be the same with you gone, man." But not one of them had said, "Stay, Xander, we need you." If one of them had, he'd never have crossed the border into Ventura County. He sure as hell wouldn't be washing dishes at the Fabulous Ladies Nightclub in Oxnard.

Oxnard, the signs read. The City that Cares. That had to earn some points on "Sunnydale, the City that Tries to Open up and Suck Your Ass into Hell on a Regular Basis." And so he stayed.

*

Xander pulled the lever and the industrial dishwasher swung open. A cloud of steam billowed out, and he didn't move, just let the heat wash over his face. "Watch it, Waylon," called Melvin, the fry cook. Xander had gotten the nickname on his first day washing dishes at the Fabulous Ladies' Night Club, because of the classic country music that overflowed his cheap headphones. Now he had been here for five weeks, and no one remembered that this was not his name. Or at least no one cared, including Xander himself. "This steam is nothing," Xander said. "Once you've been to hell and seen the industrial strength fire and brimstone, your ordinary everyday Earth-steam is like a day at the spa. Opens the pores."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna get my hat all wet." Melvin grabbed the hot pink "Fabulous Ladies'!" baseball cap from Xander's head. "Get your own or get a haircut, Hellboy." Xander knew enough about Melvin to realize that this was not a comic book reference. He also knew by now that he could say absolutely anything, about vampires or Hellmouths or giant snakes. Nobody on the kitchen staff thought these comments were any weirder than Xander's normal conversation. That was why, most of the time, he just washed the dishes and listened to Waylon. But his batteries had died half an hour ago, and he already had a feeling that he'd be sorry. He just wasn't sure exactly why yet. Melvin opened the door to the dining room and 70s porno-soundtrack music pulsed into the kitchen. "Can there really be this many chicks lame enough to spend their Friday nights in Oxnard?"

"What," Xander said, "Oxnard? The Gem of Ventura County? Gateway to the Central Coast? Home of a Kart Racing School endorsed by A.J. Foyt, and the Otis Chandler Vintage Museum of Transportation and Wildlife? What's not to love?" Melvin glared at him. "Tell me, Waylon, did they do something to your brain while you were in hell?" Irony didn't play too well at the Fabulous Ladies'.

Sissy, the club's entertainment manager burst through the door. "Oh fuck," she said. "Fuck fuck fuck!" A cigarette drooped from her lip and she leaned over Xander's shoulder to spit the butt into the sink. Her crimson nails curled around his bicep for longer than seemed strictly necessary. Sissy had the face of Tammy Fae Bakker and the body of Attilla the Hun. Xander had even found himself wishing for one of Giles' boring books so that he could figure out what kind of demon she was. "This is a fucking disaster," said Sissy. "Dirk just called and says he's got some kind of strep fucking throat, fuck that, he's probably got another goddamned audition."  
Xander coughed, and though he knew better than to get involved, he said, "Friday night at ten o'clock? An audition?"

Sissy smacked him on the back of his neck, a heavy blow made heavier by all her rings. "Wake up, Waylon. That's the only kind of audition Dirk Casto is ever gonna get, unless there's a call for a drug addicted block of wood. A very fruity, very drug addicted block of wood." She reached under the sink and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey -- Sissy's hiding places never ceased to amaze Xander -- and chugged straight from the bottle. She jabbed her thumb toward the main room. "Do you see the crowd out there? Three fucking bachelorette parties. Bunch of wannabe starlet types out there slumming. We don't have enough boys to work the whole crowd. All their daddies' beautiful American Express cards and they'll end up down the strip at Stallions'."

Xander laughed. "I haven't exactly been honing my bump and grind skills, but I can't tell you how many times I've seen The Full Monty. And I've been hoping those Strippercise classes I took at the Sunnydale Y would pay off in tips."

Then Sissy's eyes narrowed at him and, too late, he thought, Irony. Irony does not play at the Fabulous Ladies'.

*

"I'm supposed to wear this?" Xander stared down at the red, white and blue cloth that was approximately the size of a headband. He looked helplessly at the man changing beside him, trying to keep his eyes above the waist. "Um, Buck? This banana hammock?"

"For the millionth time," Buck said, "My name is Stuart, and I'm just doing this to pay my way through med school. And you're gonna need a better name than Waylon."

"How about Waylong?" Xander suggested. "You know like, Way Long -- John -- Silver?" Buck/Stuart gave him a withering glare. "We're not making pornos here. Adult dancing is a craft."

"See, where I come from, macrame is a craft. Stripping is --" Morgan, the third dancer, joined Buck in a threatening look. Xander eyed their biceps and figured that, even with his years of demon fighting, the two together were more than a match for him. "How about if I be Xander?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. "I guess that'll have to do." He fastened the faux gun belt on his police uniform and tilted his cap. Xander went for the firefighter's helmet and suspenders and heard the dancer called Morgan Studley mutter under his breath. "Xander. How lame is that?"

Xander stood backstage, behind Morgan, as the sound went down and the lights came up. Sissy clapped his shoulder and rasped in her pack-a-day voice, "Ready, Waylon?

"This is perfect," Xander said, hiking up the firefighter's belt and wrapping the length of fake hose around his arm. "Perfect, and not at all like my worst nightmare. Because, you know, my mom's not here." And then -- "Oh, shit. . ." But no, his mom almost never went out on Fridays anymore. She had to watch her "Law &amp; Order: Special Victims Unit" -- but, oh double shit, it was summer, so reruns and -

"What?" asked Sissy. "Feet failing you? Or -- " She smirked and glanced downward,

"Something else?" Her hand creeped down his back to his ass. "Face it, buddy boy, you were too hunky to stay a dishwasher for long."

Xander jumped away from her hand. "Ready," he said. "Oh, I'm so ready." And the music started, a pulsing, thumping beat. Xander was so eager to be on stage, away from Sissy, that he slipped past his mark and almost slammed into Morgan. The other dancer knocked Xander back into formation with a side thrust of his hip. Xander put a hand on started a grind of his own. He tried to remember exactly how Buck had demonstrated back stage -- side, side, forward, no wait -- Buck had finally rolled his eyes in exasperation and said, "You'll find your rhythm. It's just like fucking." Which wasn't much help for Xander, seeing as he wasn't sure how to do that, either, without Faith there to jerk him through every move.

A chant rose from the crowd, along with clapping -- "Give us Dirk! Give us Dirk!" Suddenly Xander felt hands shoving toward center stage. The music quieted slightly, and Sissy's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. "Ladies . . .fabulous ladies. . . .I give you, Oxnard's newest adult entertainment sensation. . . Waylon . . .J. . . . Xander!"

Xander looked straight ahead for the first time, and saw -- nothing, just a blast of white light.

Holy shit! he thought. Hysterical blindness. He looked down and it got better, the images swimming and indistinct, but clearer. Then he realized he had gotten an eyeful of spotlight and. . .had been standing frozen in place. Boos started to rise from the crowd, and a few calls of, "Dirk! Dirk!" How come vampires never attack when you want them to? Xander wondered.

But then. . .the beat started to pulse in his ear, his feet moved with a will of their own, his hand thrust forward to point a finger at the audience as the words roared through his brain.

Young man! There's no need to feel down!

Memories flooded him. . .

Young man! Because you're in a new town!  
. . .middle school dances where he stood by the wall, with his eyes on Harmony Kendall's ass. . .  
Young man! Pick yourself off the ground!  
. . . pep rallies where he felt as pepless as humanly possible. . .

There's no need. . .to. . .be. . .un. . .hap. . .py.  
And, in time with the syllables, he thrust his crotch forward, swung a hip to each side and, as the verse reached its climax, ripped open the tear-away buttons of the fireman's shirt.

No need to be unhappy, Xander Waylon Lavelle Jennings Harris! That's the fucking truth.

Cheers started to rise from the crowd. "Waylon! Waylon! Waylon!" He could already imagine what he would say to the other guys when the show was over, "Did you like how I pretended to be shy at first? Did you see how I won them over?" He danced faster and faster, exposed more of his sweat-beaded skin to the air of the bar. Girls. . .at least he thought they were girls. . .rushed the stage. This must be what Justin Timberlake feels like. Or Lance Bass or Joey Fatone or JC Chasez or. . .why the HELL do I know the names of that many guys in one boy band? A long slender, definitely female hand grazed his thigh, and he suddenly realized that he was down to his G-string, and she was thrusting money into it. Holy shit, this doesn't even happen to Justin! This is the greatest job ever. After this, how do I go back to live as plain old. . .

A hand with a folded bill rested against his abs, poised above his G string. The voice attached to it purred: "Hell-o-o-o-, salty goodness!" Even with all the adrenaline coursing through his body, even with the loud music and the blinding spotlights, something in the voice clicked with his memory. She was the last person he expected to meet in Oxnard, in a dive like this. She had made fast tracks out of Sunnydale -- headed for better things, he thought, than a dive like this could offer. But Xander's gaze traveled down and he knew those delicate, deceptively strong hands. And he certainly knew the deep brown eyes that met his, the lips that choked out,

"Xander??!!" just as he gasped. . .

"Cordy???" Cordelia Chase jerked her hands away from Xander's body. "I'm here with -- a friend --" she said.

"It's just for tonight --" Xander answered.

"I'm researching a part --!"

"I came to look for America --"

"Oh hell, there's no part"

"My car broke down --"

I don't even know where we are. . "Five weeks ago."

"L.A. sucks!"

Then both together: "It's so great to see you!"

Cordelia lunged forward to give nearly-naked Xander a hug. A chunky, long-nailed hand came between them.

"No touching!" Missy barked. Xander shrugged. Sissy punch-slapped his shoulder, and he started to dance again. Cordy staggered to her feet and fumbled for a purse.

"I'm going to wait for you outside and -- forget I saw this!" But she didn't seem so eager to forget. Xander didn't think he was imagining the way her eyes stayed on his chest as she backed out of the door.

"I get off at midnight!" he called. "The look on her face?" Sissy murmured in his ear. "You won't be the only one getting off."

The last chords of "YMCA" bled into the opening beats of Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff." Xander let his feet carry him through the dance. Suddenly, it looked like he wouldn't be regretting this night one bit.


End file.
